In like a lion, out like a trout

Two of these movies feature apples, throats getting slashed, and unconvincing loops of barking dogs in the background. One...does not. Oh, well.

But all three do share this in common, at least: after an intriguing and attention-getting start, they swiftly go downhill.

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Carnage (1984)

Grade: D+

Whatever faults Carnage may have, its opening sequence is undeniably striking. As we hear the strains of an old record, a young bride and groom murmur words of love, embrace one another...

...whereupon he proceeds to blow her brains out with a pistol, seemingly consensually, before turning the gun on himself. OK, not our kink, but still a hell of a MacGuffin, right?

And when, in the next sequence, we see another young couple in love move into that very same home, we're obviously meant to fear that history will somehow repeat itself.

What follows is more or less within the spectrum of films like The Amityville Horror, Poltergeist, and so on; it's just a heck of a lot more half-assed. Naturally, the ante gradually gets upped, from hand-stabbings...

...to throat-slashings:

And from limb-severings...

...to full-on decapitations:

And naturally, no matter how many signs of trouble pile up -- not to mention all the mysteriously overlooked corpses that eventually litter their property -- neither she (Leslie den Dooven) nor he (Michael Chiodo) can get it together to leave this haunted house. Instead they just sulk, bicker, and invite people over.

When a film's principals act so stupidly as to beggar belief, it's inevitably a hard sell. Ergo, the biggest flaw in Carnage isn't its amateurish production or acting, but simply that -- through repeated abuse of the audience's engagement -- the film ultimately loses its spark.

On the other hand, Miss den Dooven does have a certain charm -- at least if you're in the market for something full-figured, blonde-maned, and every bit as Dutch as her name would suggest. She'd make a fine ex-girlfriend.

...though, when it comes to marriage material, you could do worse.

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Frankenstein 80 (1972)

Grade: D-

The stylish, pervy opening sequence of Frankenstein 80 leaves no doubt as to the seediness of the film to come. A woman is struck down, her armload of apples tumbling down the stairs like a flotilla of Potemkin baby carriages.

A sinister hand removes the victim's clothing and briefly fondles her body, lingering over the naughty bits, before cutting her open and removing one of her organs. Who would do such a thing? Maybe it was one of these people, if only we could read their names:

Ah, Mill Creek, keep creekin' on.

Anyway, Frankenstein 80 is what happened when Italian cinema decided to ask the question "Hey, what if the Monster were a rapist?" And here's the delightful answer:

OK, in fairness, that's probably the most unflattering shot in the film -- making him look like some stray member of Foghat getting frog-marched out of a trashed hotel room by his long-suffering agent (who'll take care of the dead hooker, again).

This one has a bit more impact, no?

Or perhaps you prefer the version where the monster -- aka Mosaic -- beats a woman to death with a beef bone?

Anyway, Frankenstein 80 makes some silly pretense at a plot, with a missing serum, a dead patient and, of course, a megalomaniacal doctor whose last name rings no alarm bells whatsoever at the hospital where he works.

We're ostensibly meant to root for the de rigueur hero and his love interest, each of whom is about as compelling as the cotton stuffed in bottles of ibuprofen.

But the film's main hook is undoubtedly the steady trickle of T&A elicited by the rampaging Mosaic. In 1972, that might have been titillating; now, nearly five decades later, Frankenstein 80 has nothing much to offer, and no real basis on which to expect your attention.

Unless you're a Mill Creek completist (or a Frankenrape buff, and God help you if you are), don't bother watching this one.

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Death Warmed Up (1984)

[aka Death Warmed Over]

Grade: D+

We wanted to like Death Warmed Up. After all, it's from New Zealand, dates from the first half of the 1980s, and -- much as we later saw from Peter Jackson -- has no qualms about going completely over the top when necessary.

A few reviewers convinced themselves this was an effective and appealing film; it's easy to see how. The opening sequence is by turns taut, sexy, enigmatic, and violent, backed up by flashy cinematography that makes the most of each shot.

Even something as simple as an exterior shot of a building is handled with a bit of verve:

And the paroxysm of parricide (with a dash of, uh, fluorocide) that climaxes the first act? It still has some punch, even decades later.

But then Death Warmed Up takes a left turn and decides it wants to be Mad Max, with revenge and vehicles and blond dye-jobs...

...and some guy with no eyebrows (David Letch)...

...and a chase sequence in a tunnel. Mel Gibson's flick didn't have that, huh? Looks damn good, doesn't it?

Or wait, maybe we should make a high-concept zombie movie. Could we do both? Let's get some surgery going.

And a meaningless oscilloscope-type readout that looks like a butthole: can you do one of those up for a few hundred bucks?

And how about an exploding head or two?

Ooh, let's throw in an Indian stereotype (Jonathan Hardy). It's like A Face in the Fog, but ethnic!

For all the visual style and (potentially) glorious excess of Death Warmed Up, its complete failure to deliver any kind of narrative cohesion or character motivation pretty much spoils the fun. One of many questions left unanswered: why exactly does protagonist Michael (Michael Hurst) drag his friends with him on his revenge mission?

As the old saying goes, Death Warmed Up can't bedazzle us with brilliance, so it tries to befuddle us with bullshit. But not only do the film's visual fireworks fail to compensate for the lack of a coherent plot or script, it may well be that they actively contribute to the stunned, apathetic feeling that came over us about 45-50 minutes in.

With a distinctive cast and ambitious production values, it's a pity that Death Warmed Up burns its bridges so completely. But burn them it does, and the slapdash result is -- for the most part -- an unrewarding chaos of meaninglessness.